The Guardian dubbed Lydia Davis, in a recent interview, a “miniaturist with sizeable intentions”. When approaching Davis and her body of work, it’s a great phrase to keep in mind.
A writer and translator with a breathtaking range, Davis (born in Massachusetts, 1947) won the Man International Booker Prize in 2013. Her speciality is short stories: very short stories. Sometimes totalling only a paragraph or even a sentence (her shortest is just 4 words long), Davis masters “economy and precision” according to Ali Smith. A great favourite among American writers, including Jonathan Franzen and George Saunders, Davis’ work around the short story form is – even on a first reading – clearly pushing at the boundaries of what language can convey. Davis makes the joke that much of her work would not pass muster in The New Yorker and that she has often found success in smaller, more avant-garde-leaning publications. In her collected Essays, focused on reading and writing, her preoccupations are laid bare. We not only see the process by which Davis creates and edits her work, but glimpses of her other life as a gifted translator. Having worked on Proust’s Swann’s Way and Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, the thoughts Davis has around “lessons absorbed” intersect in this complex and challenging book.
Davis is at her most formidable when it comes to the day-to-day business of writing. She discusses the nature of ‘fragments’ and their value in the writing process. Her advice to writers stems from the basics – always carry a notebook with you – to a thorough grounding in her essay ‘Thirty Recommendations for Good Writing Habits’. We’ve all read the terrible how-to guides. Davis avoids the obvious and instead breaks down how you can evolve your practice, especially when it comes to observation and building a story. Davis’ tone makes a refreshing change from the puffed-up, self-proclaimed experts. Not only is Davis walking the walk – still actively creating in her Seventies – but she delivers this knowledge with a genuine desire to be useful, passing the good stuff onto the next generation. Her love of translated works comes through loud and clear in this section. Her essay, ‘Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary’, lovingly details how this classic of French literature was written. Again, the importance of revision crops up – Flaubert’s commitment to getting le mot juste is exhausting just to read. Davis wants to disavow anyone who still thinks of genius as being ‘effortless’. The level of analytic detail Davis includes is astonishing, including the biographical note that Proust (more intersections) didn’t care for Madame Bovary, and said as much in a 1920 article. At the very least, Essays will have you searching out Davis’ celebrated translations.
What is most apparent in this collection is Davis’ all-consuming love of fiction. She casually drops into the mix that her first – and only – creative writing workshop was lead by the excellent Grace Paley. Davis is at her most accessible when discussing her favourite writers. A touching essay on Jane Bowles brings an “under-recognised” novelist to our attention. Dying at the age of 56, Bowles’ writing was hard-won; with the author battling alcoholism and episodes of manic-depression. Davis is superb at championing talent, and in Essays is not shy about passing those enthusiasms on. In ‘Small but Perfectly Formed: Five Favourite Short Stories’, Davis points us towards Franz Kafka’s ‘The Burrow’; Flannery O’Connor’s Everything That Rises Must Converge, for its “cutting humour and deft portraiture” and of course Grace Paley’s Wants. A two-page story involving “an ex-husband and a library fine of $32”, Paley’s influence on Davis’ short stories is there not just in the brevity of form – boiling a narrative down to its essential parts – but also in the wry, astutely-judged observations.
It is in the playful tones that Essays reveals the most about Davis’ character. The collection features autobiographical notes, and the most enjoyable is ‘Meeting Abraham Lincoln’. It starts one Christmas with the family discussing how many handshakes would separate them from a famous person. In an extraordinary coincidence, Davis relays the story of how Clinton DeWitt (her Mum’s great grandfather) and Sidney Brooks (her Dad’s great-great uncle) both, at different times, met President Lincoln. The joy is in the telling of the story: Davis relays how DeWitt considered himself so important he travelled to the White House to “interview” Lincoln to see if he was worth voting for. Sidney, by contrast, was “already convinced of Lincoln’s worth” and just wanted to get a better look at the man. How both men were able to get so close to the President is a nice period detail, if a bit regrettable considering how Lincoln’s presidency ended. What comes through in these more personal pieces is that Davis is not just a deeply original thinker, it is the application of humour that really informs her work.
Essays as a collection reveals a writer of enormous capability, but there’s no ego on show here. Davis’ generosity shines through: her recommendations of other authors’ work will send you to your nearest independent bookseller (Davis famously disapproves of Amazon). The advice she offers to other writers is specific and well-judged: Davis doesn’t do platitudes. Essays is a great summation of Davis’ work to date, but as an introduction that offers a “masterclass in reading and writing”, it’s pretty unbeatable.
Any Cop?: A complex book, offering real insight into the creative process.
Reviewer: Helen Tope
Bookmunch 